The Sicilian's Bride (2 page)

“It is hard, even for us. But we have experience. Historically, it’s our land. Has been for centuries. For hundreds of years most Sicilian wine was shipped off the island, to be blended into other wines. But now we’re getting the attention from the world markets we deserve. Twenty-six generations of Montessoris grew grapes there before we were forced to sell it to your uncle a few years ago.”

“Forced?”

“It’s a long story and it doesn’t concern you. We had a sales slump, followed by financial problems which induced us to give it up, but we’ve recovered and now we want the land back where it belongs. To us. What difference does it make to you? You’ve never seen it, you’ve never lived on it or farmed it. You didn’t have picnics there, eat the grapes off the vines or swim in the pond. It means nothing to you.”

A pond? She had a pond? She’d stock it with fish, swim in it and watch the birds drink from it. Now she was sure she’d never give it up. She sat up straight in the leather bucket seat. “You’re wrong. It means a lot to me. A chance for me to do something different, to earn a living from the land my uncle left me.”

“Your uncle never grew a single grape there.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t. I haven’t seen the property, but it’s mine and I plan to live there and make it my home. It’s my right to settle there, my chance to make a fresh start. Surely everyone deserves that.”

He shook his head as if she was naive and stupid. She’d been
called worse. “I don’t know what you’ve been doing,” he said, “but if you want a fresh start, why don’t you buy a hotel, start a newspaper or open a café? All of those would be easier for a newcomer than making wine. Take my word for it. Viticulture takes time and patience and a feeling for the land.”

“I appreciate your advice,” she said with all the manners she could muster in the face of his blatant cynicism. “But you have to believe me when I say I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to succeed.”

He continued to steamroll over her plans for the future as if she hadn’t spoken. “Want some more advice?”

Before she could politely say no, he went on. “Get a job. It’s an easier way to make a living than making wine. Make someplace else your home. You know I could be taking you to a totally different property and you wouldn’t know the difference.”

Startled, she asked, “Are you?”

He turned to look at her as if she’d accused him of cold-blooded murder. Wordlessly he pointed to a crooked hand-carved wooden sign on the side of the road, and said “Azienda Spendora.”

She let out a sigh of relief. He wasn’t kidnapping her. He wasn’t trying to fool her by taking her to another property. She was here. This was all hers. It was a dream come true. Or a nightmare. As soon as they pulled up in front of the house she saw what he meant.

There were tiles missing from the roof and cracks in the stained cement walls. She got out of the car and stifled a wave of disappointment. Whatever she felt, she couldn’t let him see her frustration at the house’s failings. He’d interpret it as a sign of weakness and just renew his futile efforts to buy it from her.

“You don’t have to stay,” she said. “I’ll just look around and catch a ride back.”

“Catch a ride?” he asked incredulously. “This is a private road. No one’s been on it for months, not since your uncle died.”

“Was there a funeral?”

“Of course. What do you take us for, savages? The whole town was there.”

The implication was that she was the only one missing. Obviously he thought she had no sense of family obligation. Maybe he thought
she
was a savage.

“I didn’t know he existed until I got a letter from the lawyer.” She took a deep breath. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll walk back.”

He skimmed her body with a cool, disdainful assessing gaze as if wondering whether to believe she hadn’t known her uncle. He took in her short skirt, her white shirt and the strappy sandals she’d thought perfect for a hot Sicilian summer day, but which were hardly sturdy enough to walk miles down that rutted dirt road. Okay, so she was dressed all wrong. She wasn’t Italian and she was out of her element. Why couldn’t he give her a break, cut her some slack?

“I’ll stick around,” he said. “It won’t take you long to realize this is not the place for you.”

The man was maddening with his dark pessimism. She wished he’d leave. She’d rather walk barefoot over hot coals than know he was waiting for her to cave in and give up her inheritance.

She turned to look at him. Puzzled, she said, “Stick around? Where did you learn English?”

“From a tutor,” he said in his incredibly sexily accented English. “Being in the wine business, my father had all six of us learn English, the universal language of trade. Bernard taught us all the slang and swear words he knew. They’ve been quite useful.”

“I can imagine,” she murmured, surprised that he’d deigned
to favor her with such a long response. How long would it take her to learn Italian with all the slang and the swear words she’d need to live here? The difference between his privileged background with tutors and a large family and the way she’d been brought up was mind-boggling. She wondered if he knew how lucky he was. He probably took his family for granted. Most people did.

Instead of waiting, he followed her onto the veranda, stepping carefully over rotten boards and through the front door that swung open and creaked on rusty hinges. When a giant spiderweb brushed against her face, she stifled a scream and lurched back so fast she bumped into him. He put his large hands on her shoulders to steady her or more likely to keep her at a distance, and she fought off the temptation to let him prop her up for a moment while she caught her breath. But Isabel Morrison would never rely on anyone but herself again. Not even for a moment. Instead she straightened her shoulders and forged ahead.

“It was just a spider,” she said, more to herself than to him. If she didn’t talk to him, maybe he’d go away. Or at least wait outside and let her explore on her own. With his imposing build, the brooding expression in his blue eyes, his way of speaking English that gave a new meaning to everything he said, he was impossible to ignore. She couldn’t concentrate on the house. Not when he filled the place with his tall, masculine presence and his overwhelming confidence. All she knew was that no matter what its flaws, no matter how much he offered her for it, this house was hers and she was holding on to it.

Behind the house was the small pond dotted with water lilies. She leaned down and dangled her arm in the cool water.

“For irrigation,” he said.

“Or swimming,” she said. She pictured lawn furniture, a striped awning, and herself cooling off in the fresh water on a hot summer day in her very own pond.

He braced his arm against the stone wall and surveyed the scene. Was he resentful of her enjoying her own pond? Or was he simply remembering summer days when he had swum with his siblings here and feeling sorry that he never would again? From the look on his face she doubted he had any happy memories at all. What was his problem? Was it really only her and her ownership of this place?

His dark hair was brushed back from his face making his strong features stand out like those on a stone carving. He might have first looked like a farmhand, but now she could see him for what he was, the aristocratic lord of the manor, totally accustomed to having his way. To acquiring whatever land he wanted. And full of resentment at knowing this land was hers now.

“I’d avoid the pond,” he said curtly, “unless you’re not afraid of water snakes.”

She pulled her arm out of the water and dried her hands on her skirt. Spiders, snakes, what else?

“You can see it hasn’t been used for years,” he said. “Your uncle…”

“I know. He neglected it. I know why you sold it, but why did he buy it from you?”

“Probably thought he’d cash in and make a fortune from the grapes. A lot of people have the idea it’s easy and profitable to grow grapes and make wine.” He pointedly looked right at her, leaving no doubt about who he meant. “It’s an illusion. Outsiders often can’t tell the difference between a burgundy and our local grecanicoa, let alone how or when to harvest an Amarado grape. It’s hard work.”

“I don’t doubt it, but…”

“I know, you don’t mind hard work. Believe me, you have plenty of it ahead of you.”

She wanted to say he had no idea of how much this place meant to her no matter what condition it was in. She also
wanted to ask him how and when to harvest these special dessert-wine grapes, but that would just confirm his suspicions that she was no different from her uncle, both ignorant dreamers. Maybe she was worse, since she hadn’t even paid for the place. She didn’t even know what she was getting.

“The first spring frost he let the vines freeze and came roaring down the mountain to take refuge in the valley and never went back.” He shook his head with disgust.

“He was out of his element. What did you expect?”

“I expected him to sell it back to us before he died. But he was just as stubborn as you. All I want is the land back,” he said. “Back in the hands of someone who appreciates the
terroir
, the soil, the land where these grapes are grown. Is that so hard to understand?”

She straightened and put her hands on her hips. “Give me a little credit. I didn’t just take the next plane over here. I did my homework. I am prepared to appreciate the
terroir
as much as anyone. Even you. And I haven’t insulted
your
relatives, you know, as you have my uncle.”

“Go ahead. If you met them, you’d see my younger brother is immature. My mother is domineering. My grandmother hopelessly old-fashioned. My grandfather is stubborn and opinionated but hard-working. Years ago he planted some of these vines, nurtured them, picked the grapes and bottled them. I take responsibility for their loss. Now I owe him and the whole family to get them back.”

She didn’t understand why he took responsibility or why he owed them when it was a family operation, but she couldn’t mistake the hard edge to his voice. He was not only determined, but he had his whole family to back him up. She was outnumbered. It didn’t matter. She had the deed to the land. They didn’t. Sure she felt bad for his grandfather, but for once she was going to put herself first.

They couldn’t force her to sell—unless she couldn’t sell her wine because it wasn’t good enough or because what he said about waiting years to see any profit was true. Or unless something else unexpected happened. Even in the heat of the midday sun, a cold chill ran up and down her arms. Had she made a huge mistake by coming here? Thinking back, all the surprises in her life had been unhappy ones except for this inheritance, which she took as a sign her luck had finally changed.

She noticed Dario hadn’t mentioned a wife in his list of relatives. Which didn’t mean he didn’t have one. Anyone who looked like him was bound to have a woman in his life. But who would put up with that bitterness she heard in his voice or that single-purpose determination that left no room for anything else? Were those the same traits he saw in her? Surely she wasn’t bitter, although she was certainly determined. He shouldn’t begrudge her a small piece of land if he owned half the valley.

She’d like to meet his family, just because they were her neighbors and she wanted to fit into the local society, but they probably already hated her as he did for refusing to sell her land to them. Nonetheless, she envied him. What wouldn’t she give for a big family she could tease and criticize and love despite their failings?

“What does your family think of you?” she asked. Maybe she was the only one who saw him as a difficult person to deal with. She doubted it. Not with that iron jaw, ice-cold blue eyes and stubborn chin. Or did he suddenly turn into a devoted grandson and lovable sibling when he was home? That was hard to imagine.

“Cold, ruthless and heartless. They say I’m different because I’m not relaxed and easygoing like a true Sicilian. I’m too determined, too driven, even obsessed. When things go wrong I don’t shrug and say tomorrow will be better. I
make
it better. That’s why…” He stopped in mid sentence, with his gaze fixed on her, as if he could make her see she had no chance against a formidable foe like him. She could imagine what he was going to say…
that’s why I will take possession of this land and you won’t.

“But they love you anyway,” she suggested. She hoped she didn’t sound as skeptical as she felt.

He didn’t answer. After a moment she filled in the silence. “You’re very lucky. I never knew my parents. I never knew any family at all. No grandparents, no home, no family. I was an orphan.” She kept her voice light, as if being an orphan was no more important than being brown-eyed or left-handed. She hated being on the receiving end of pity. But how she’d envied the kids with a home and a family, especially those with grandmothers. The kind who baked in kitchens that smelled like fresh bread, wore aprons and had laps to curl up in. How did she even know they existed? From picture books and from other kids. Certainly not from experience.

“I grew up in foster care,” she explained.

He looked puzzled but he didn’t say anything. She began to feel foolish for going on about her background when who cared, really? Maybe it was that he had no idea what she was talking about.

“Never mind, it’s not important. You say my uncle never made any wine while he was here?”

“He wasn’t here that long. Breezed into town from America or God knows where, bought the vineyard, walked away from the vineyard and soon afterward he died. No one knew much about him. Where he really came from, why he was here at all. Some people said he was on the run from the law in California. Who knows? It was clear he had no idea what it took to run a demanding operation like this. All those wasted
grapes. Whatever wine there is was made by my family and it would be in the cellar.”

Dario led the way to the kitchen where stone steps led to the wine cellar. In the kitchen they passed an ancient cooktop tilted to one side. The place reeked of cold and loneliness. It would be a job making it livable, but she could do it. There was an old wooden icebox and an oven with its door hanging open. It wasn’t quite her dream kitchen, but it could be.